


Sacrifice

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Religious, Blood, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Gods, Human Sacrifice, References to Red Dragon, References to Suicide, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman breaks into sobs when Will binds the girl’s hands together in front of her; her mother, perhaps. Will tries to ignore it. No one else makes a sound. It is the life of this girl or the lives’ of everyone.<br/>Bile rises in the back of Will’s throat, but he keeps his expression stoic. The village relies on him. Their faith relies on him. He is the man of visions, who leads them in worship of the Gods. He cannot let them see him waiver even slightly.<br/>It does not keep the disgust and rage from boiling in his chest as he takes Abigail Hobbs by the forearm to lead her up the path to the temple.</p><p>Fill for the following prompt on HannibalKink: "Hannibal is worshiped as a god and eats people as sacrifices. No one has ever seen him, but a ravenstag delivers the names of the sacrifices to the priest in their dreams. Will has been the priest for quite a while... One day, the latest person to be sacrificed comes into the temple: a very young Abigail Hobbs. Will is horrified by this choice and begs Hannibal to eat him instead..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifice

It has rained for nine consecutive days, and unrest is beginning to settle in among the people of the village.

Some are claiming it is an omen, or that it is the start of punishment for unknown sin. If the storms do not cease soon, it will be impossible to plant in time before the first frost, and there will be no harvest next year. Everyone is tense, even the animals in their shelters, and there have been more fights and violence in the past few days than Will has ever seen before in this village.

Will knows they are waiting for him to say that the weather is from the beyond, but he cannot, not unless he knows with full certainty.

It does not stop the villagers from giving larger than usual offerings more frequently, as if offerings could induce another vision. He senses their unrest when he is unable to produce some sort of solution to their problems—or at least a definite vision about it from the Gods. Will feels the beginnings of a creeping concern that the villagers’ disturbance would grow to a point where they might attempt to overthrow and kill him, labelling him as a false messenger, an outsider who betrayed them all. It has happened before. Will has seen it.

The village had been prospering since his arrival, and Will had so far not given them a reason to dislike or distrust him. They would be hesitant to kill him with such a positive history behind him—or so Will hoped. Nonetheless, Will makes a point to show that he is working as hard as possible, and that he is doing everything in his power to appease whatever powers might have induced the deluge. He is not allowed to know the identities and names of any of his congregation, and he is not allowed any non-essential contact with the world outside of his church, but it does not stop him from silently sharing the food stores he had saved up, or going hunting with the dogs the villagers had offered to him and giving the spoils away. He begins sleeping on the stone floor of the church and allowing those washed out of hearth and home by flooding to stay in his residence.

It helps, somewhat.

The villagers seem less like to sacrifice him, at any rate.

Until the twelfth day of rain comes and goes, and there is no sign of an end in sight. Will is sitting on the altar stone and attempting to meditate, to see if he could perhaps induce a vision, when a man approaches him.

“I know you can’t talk to me,” the man begins. He is heavy-set, older—one of the village leaders, Will surmises, though he intentionally knows nothing of the village’s politics. They have sent him to try to get Will to bargain with the Gods, no doubt. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you.

“Our lives depend on this rain stopping, Brother. Without a harvest, we’re all going to starve. People are.... They’re doubting. We need a miracle.”

Will can’t reply. It would break his vows.

“You serve the Gods. There’s got to be something you can do, right? Anything would be good, anything at all. Even if—” The man clenches his jaw and runs a hand over his close-cut, greying hair. “Even if you had to make something up. I won’t tell anyone we had this conversation, I swear to you on my own life.”

It isn’t about other people finding out that Will’s worried about. It’s the Gods. He has seen how They treat Their faithful and Their unfaithful alike, and he does not want to ever anger Them.

Will just squeezes his hands into two tight fists on his knees and closes his eyes for a long moment.

The silence must not be clear enough of an answer, because the man reaches out and strikes Will across the cheek.

Will does not respond. It is not the first time someone has done something like this to him. His face stings, but he remains seated and unresponsive.

“Six girls have gone missing in the past three moons, and now we’re about to lose our way of life, and you can do nothing but sit here?” the man shouts.

At that, Will does flinch. He knows that girls have been vanishing, but it is not his business to worry about disappearances, unless they were of a supernatural variety. It does not keep him feeling guilty for his helplessness, though.

“We are desperate, Brother,” the man finally whispers, collapsing to the pew beside Will. “You are our last hope.”

Will rises to his feet and brushes imagined dirt off his black robes, then turns to tidy the already neat altar.

The man leaves after a minute. Will can feel the weight of the man’s guilt follow him out, a tangible presence.

No one is going to be spared if the rains do not stop.

* * *

 

The rain is a soft drumming on the roof of the church by nightfall. It’s become soothing to Will now, a gentle background noise while he fletches another arrow for the quiver beside him on the back of the very last pew in the row. The dogs don’t seem to be bothered by the rain, either, lazing comfortably at his feet.

He is so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t notice that anyone has entered the church until his skin prickles with the sensation of being watched and a chill of dread settles in his bones. His dogs stir, staring up at their master in anticipation, waiting for his command, but he only gestures for them to relax.

Will turns around quickly, anticipating the worst, but there’s only the flickering shadows cast by the lamplight. One of the dogs barks, and Will laughs under his breath and picks up another arrow.

Only a second later, the feeling of being watched returns, and Will twists back once more. Again, there is nothing there. Outside, the rain picks up, and in the distance, a wolf howls. Will shudders. A dog whimpers.

Warm breath tickles the back of Will’s neck as something bony scratches his shoulder.

This time, he turns around as slowly as possible. He struggles to keep his breathing regular.

The ravenstag stands partially obscured in the shadows behind the pew, massive, inky-black. It nuzzles its antlers against the nape of Will’s neck again, blinking dark eyes at the priest.

The terror does not fade, but Will swallows and tries to steady his pounding pulse.

This is a familiar nightmare.

The creature bows its head and huffs, and when it looks up again Will meets its gaze. The ravenstag doesn’t have a proper voice, but that had never stopped it from communicating before.

ABIGAIL HOBBS.

“A—Abigail Hobbs?” Will repeats.

SACRIFICE ABIGAIL HOBBS TOMORROW AT SUNSET.

“Yes, my Lord.”

* * *

 

The rain clears a few hours after Will gives the notice to the town messenger at sunrise. The village’s atmosphere is now muddled with joy at the end of the storm and apprehension at the sacrifice demanded.

Simply because human sacrifice was a routine demand of their Forest God, the Wendigo, does not mean it was one they were comfortable with. Will _himself_ was still not comfortable with it, and he was the one who had to lead the sacrifices to the temple in the woods and tie down their hands, lest they try to escape.

It was, however, a very necessary evil. To refuse to offer a sacrifice to the Wendigo was to damn their entire community to the wrath of the Gods.

Will makes the initial journey up the steep mountain road to the temple alone, later in the afternoon, long after releasing the name of the sacrifice. The forest is too quiet for comfort, nearly silent. The air is still heavy with the rain.

It makes Will’s heavy black robes weigh even heavier on him, the collar chafing at his skin.

He tries not to think, because it’s too easy to begin to picture whoever Abigail Hobbs is as a person and not as a sacrifice. Instead, he concentrates on the hike, on how the silver antler-shaped amulet seems heftier around his neck, of the rituals he will need to plan for in the upcoming few moons. Mindless tasks, physical distractions.

The temple at the top of the mountain is less a temple proper and more simply an altar table carved naturally from the rock, shrouded by trees and a stone circle. A well-worn iron hook has been drilled into the altar top, to tie down the sacrifice. Will shudders at the sight every time.

He sweeps the altar clean and pushes the stones that form the borders of the temple back into a perfect circle, generic preparations. The autumnal cold pierces through the wool and cotton of his clothing, but Will does not pause from his work.

The sun slips to the farthest western point it makes before setting when Will treks back down to the village to collect Abigail Hobbs.

The entire village is circled in the town centre, silent, all eyes locked on the priest as he enters. The man who struck Will is holding the blindfolded sacrifice by her forearm, expression grim.

The sacrifice is a girl, thirteen or fourteen years old, dressed in fine virgin white cotton like a child-bride.

Will’s jaw clenches and his stomach turns. This is the youngest sacrifice that the God of the Forest has demanded. Abigail is hardly older than a child.

A woman breaks into sobs when Will binds the girl’s hands together in front of her; her mother, perhaps. Will tries to ignore it. No one else makes a sound.

 It is the life of this girl or the lives’ of everyone.

Bile rises in the back of Will’s throat, but he keeps his expression stoic. The village relies on him. Their _faith_ relies on him. He is the man of visions, who leads them in worship of the Gods. He cannot let them see him waiver even slightly.

It does not keep the disgust and rage from boiling in his chest as he takes Abigail Hobbs by the forearm to lead her up the path to the temple.

* * *

 

By the time the circle of stones is visible, Will has made up his mind.

He has served the Gods with unwavering, unfaltering faith since his first vision. He has never broken a single vow or commandment asked of him by the Gods or the priesthood, even when it cost him.

But there is only so much that can be asked of even the most faithful.

To sacrifice a girl as young as Abigail Hobbs is the limit of Will’s faith.

When they reach the temple, Will tugs the blindfold off of Abigail and cuts her free of the rope around her wrists. She is silent, though her breathing is ragged from exertion. Mud dirties the hem of her dress.

“How fast can you run?” Will asks quietly, voice hoarse.

Abigail blinks in confusion. “What?”

“How fast can you run? Could you...” Will exhales heavily through his nose. “Could you make it back down the trail before the sun has set?”

“I—I guess?” Abigail says hesitantly. “Why?”

Will turns his back to her, to stare at the stone altar table. “The Wendigo is only active at night. You should be safe in the village—the Wendigo loses power once It leaves Its domain in the woods—but if you’re not there by sunset, I can’t promise you’ll be safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I won’t sacrifice a chi—an _innocent_ ,” Will all but hisses, “to a God. I’ll offer myself instead.”

“Oh.” Abigail glances at the altar. “Oh,” she repeats, softer.  Will stiffens when she rests a delicate hand on his shoulder. “I’m not innocent. You... You don’t have to worry about that.”

Will shifts away from her touch and laughs harshly. “You’re a child.”

“I’m fourteen years old, Brother. I have spilled blood before. I have killed.”

“What, a deer? A fish? Bloodshed—”

“Girls, Brother.”

Will freezes and swallows audibly.

“Girls who looked like me,” Abigail continues, expression still as impassive as it had been. “Girls with blues eyes and dark hair and pale skin. My father made me help him kill them. I could be killed myself, or I could help him. I chose to save myself.” She laughs under her breath. “It’s only fair I be chosen for sacrifice.”

The missing girls... It made sense enough.

Will pulls the silver knife from inside his robes and drags the edge along his own palm anyway, smearing the blood against the stone altar to form the mark of the Wendigo. Abigail Hobbs was asked to choose between her own life, or the lives of strangers.

Will was asked to choose between the lives of himself and an entire community, or the lives of a few select strangers. What difference was there, really? No one had ever questioned Will’s decisions, or those of every priest who came before him.

It wasn’t difficult to understand.

“It’s too late for you to run now,” Will says quietly. “You won’t make it back before sundown. I’ll protect you, but I don’t know how much that’s going to mean.”

Abigail stammers for a moment, folding her arms over her chest. “You can’t be serious—”

Will shushes her. Silence settles in the temple.

The sun sinks behind the horizon, but there is no sign of the Wendigo.

Will flinches at every noise. He normally ties the sacrifice down, draws the mark in the sacrifice’s blood, and leaves before the Wendigo arrives. It is not a mortal’s place to witness what a God does with their sacrifices, no matter if they were priests or not.

* * *

 

Will and Abigail are both starting to drift off, reclining on the altar, when a noise like strong wind against walls of a house jolts them awake.

It is full dark, though the moon and stars offer enough light to fill the temple clearing. Abigail flashes Will a terrified look, but Will only shakes his head. Panic will do them no good now.

A gaunt humanoid figure stood in the shadows across from them, taller than any human and with a heavy rack of antlers on its head.

The Wendigo.

“This is not as I commanded,” the God says. It sounds exactly as the stag does in Will’s dreams, rough and authoritative, laced with an implacable accent.

Will does not waiver. He will not give this creature the pleasure of seeing his fear. “I will not sacrifice a child to You.”

The God moves out of the shadows, Its shape shifting from monstrous to simple human man. Will has never seen a God before, in any sort of form.

The Wendigo does not disappoint; Its human form is just as intimidating, broad and tall, crowned with a circlet of antlers and dressed in finest red and black clothing. In the moonlight shadows, His face almost looks like a hollow skull.

“You would offer yourself instead,” the Wendigo surmises. It almost sounds amused. “You are disturbed by the notion that you would be implicated in murdering a child. You are even more disturbed because you are relatively confident that I eat my sacrifices, though not so sure in the idea that you would say anything to your congregation or brothers in faith.”

There is no answer to that Will can give.

“Does it disturb you because before you could imagine you were offering honour to a God, but now you believe you are only placating evil?”

“Take me,” Will says, in lieu of a true answer. “Let Abigail go.”

The Wendigo tilts Its head thoughtfully. “It is not the place of mortals to interfere with the affairs of the Gods. It would be within my rights to kill you both and take my wrath out upon this land. Another fortnight of storms may serve it well.”

“This has nothing to do with the village,” snaps Will. He is already a dead man walking. He has known that from the moment he set eyes on Abigail Hobbs. “Leave that out of this.”

The Wendigo paces forward, reaching long, elegant fingers to lift the silver antler pendant from its resting place against Will’s chest, staring at it for a few seconds in contemplative silence. “I have slaughtered by the hundred before. I have brought famine and plague in equal measures with healing and plentiful harvests. There were times when the floors of my temples ran red with blood shed in my name. I should strike terror into you.”

“Well, I don’t find you that interesting,” Will retorts, though his pulse is quickening in fear.

“You will.” The God lets the pendant slip from Its grasp and straightens Its posture. “You are aware that Abigail Hobbs has killed before?” It gazes Abigail over for a second. She swallows hard and tenses.

“She made a choice between her own life and the life of an unknown. I can... relate.”

“Yet you would still offer yourself to keep her safe.” The Wendigo leers.

“What difference does it make to you? You want a meal.”

The Wendigo steps back towards Will. It runs tongue over Its lower lip. “Why should I take you, and not Abigail Hobbs?”

“You’ve never demanded anyone so young before. You prefer adults, not children, usually men. Abigail Hobbs doesn’t make sense, killer or not.”

“Perceptive. Your talents are truly wasted.” The God hums tunelessly, picking up the silver knife from where it had been sitting on the altar. “If you being walking now,” It says, turning to Abigail, who stares at It with eyes wide with terror, “you may be back before they discover your father has hung himself. You may even be able to save your mother from the same fate.”

Abigail bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood, nodding frantically, mumbling a nonsensical prayer of gratitude as she stumbles to her feet and down the path.

The Wendigo holds the knife up to the light, staring at how it glints, until Abigail’s footsteps can no longer be heard.

“Tell me. Have you seen blood under the moonlight, Brother?”

“What?”

“It appears quite black.” The God picks up Will’s injured hand. “Remarkable boy.” It bends down and drags Its tongue against the congealing blood of the knife wound. Will flinches instinctively, unable to hide the pain. This is worse, perhaps, than what the villagers would have done to him, but Will has no room for regret or fear, not when the Wendigo is gripping his jaw in Its hand and raking eyes over the priest's form. “I think I’ll eat your heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> I played around a lot with religion in this story, so it ended up resembling a strange cross between medieval Christianity and paganism. I hope it’s something like what OP had in mind. 
> 
> I intentionally left the ending ambiguous, yes, mainly because it could have gone in either a weird Hannibal-eating-Will direction or a cannibalism-themed re-interpretation of the Ganymede myth, and neither were really working in the context of the prompt. 
> 
> Full prompt is [here on DW](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3166.html?thread=6082398) as well as below: "Hannibal is worshiped as a god and eats people as sacrifices. No one has ever seen him, but a ravenstag delivers the names of the sacrifices to the priest in their dreams. The priests never come from the town/village, are shut down from the outside world, and thus have no way of knowing the names and no reason to pick someone in particular. Will has been the priest for quite a while and the town has flourished during his work, so people quite like him and offer him dogs so he doesn't feel too lonely. One day, the latest person to be sacrificed comes into the temple: a very young Abigail Hobbs. Will is horrified by this choice and begs Hannibal to eat him instead, even after Abigail confesses she helped her father murder young girls from the village."


End file.
